31

Franny

Rupert’s entire body went rigid, and Franny stopped breathing. The small glob of whipped cream dropped onto her cheek, its wet plop echoing through the chamber.

“Leave us.” Rupert’s command was deathly soft.

From her periphery, the emerald-green-and-gold of the footmen’s livery flickered by, the servants scurrying from the room. Rupert’s hands flexed on her arms, and her attention snapped back to him. On his near-black eyes, on the tempest swirling there. She shivered.

Click.

The door shut, leaving them with just the tick of the ornately carved freestanding clock in the room.

Tick.

His nostrils flared.

Tick .

Her pulse sped up.

Tick.

His mouth crashed down on hers.

He didn’t hesitate or give her warning. His tongue plunged into her mouth. He was angry. Exacting. His hands released her arms, and air slapped her bare calves. Her hands plunged into his hair. He violently tugged up her skirts. She fisted his curls and yanked him even closer. She wouldn’t let him run away again. She gave him as good as she got.

Better.

He might be furious with her, but she was just as livid. He ground his mouth against hers, lips bruising, teeth clacking. She pressed into him, and they fused together, a tangle of tongues and tortured emotions.

“You have no idea how angry I am with you.” Pain was etched in his words, scraping over her heart. “You have no idea how badly you frightened me.” His fingertips dug into her thighs, his forehead pressing against hers, while his breaths surged against her lips.

His hands slid to the center of her, and she couldn’t hold back her moan any longer. Their simultaneous groans reverberated through the room.

“Bloody hell, you’re so fucking wet for me, Franny.”

She whimpered. She loved when he succumbed to vulgar language. Like the image he’d been crafted in was starting to break away, the real man underneath revealed. She wanted that man. The true man. Their mouths met again, and the heady pressure of his violent kiss, the sweet taste of whipped cream and him consumed her. Consumed her as greedily as the man above currently was. Her core throbbed, needing more than the light glides he was giving her.

Rupert’s fingers delved deep inside her. She arched off the table, legs skating desperately against his hips, needing to be closer, needing something to ground her. He thrust his fingers into her again, and his mouth hovered above hers, lips touching, but not kissing her.

“You like it,” he murmured, his lips brushing over hers. “It gets you off, doesn’t it? Disobeying me. Testing my patience.” His fingers slid from her, swirling over her.

“I love it,” she whimpered. Heat coiled tight between her thighs, every circle of his fingers bringing her higher.

His fingers stilled. Her hand flew to his forearm, and she tugged frantically, desperate for him to resume. She was so close. But he didn’t budge. Damn him! She stretched up and bit his lower lip. Hard.

They fell into another furious kiss, but his fingers remained still, their only movement the occasional slight increase in pressure before backing off again. The worst kind of torment. Press. Release. Press. Release.

She growled.

He backed off.

He brushed his nose gently against hers.

She wasn’t fooled by the tender gesture.

“You’re a bad girl, Franny.”

Her body trembled. He said it like a threat. Like a promise.

He lifted off her and her entire body went cold. She needed his weight back on her, the heat of him bleeding into her skin.

“On your knees. Now.”

She scrambled, frantically pulling her skirts out of the way as she rolled over and rose up on all fours.

Whoosh .

Her skirts flew up, cold air hitting her backside. He nudged her legs farther apart and finally— finally— put his fingers back on her. She groaned, dropping her head to the table, her forehead landing in something squishy. She glanced up. Oh dear, the raspberry tart.

But she didn’t have time to be distracted. His fingers slipped over her swollen folds, his other hand biting into her arse. He bent over her, his chest pressing along the length of her back. Heavy, deliciously oppressive. She reveled in it. She pushed against it, needing more of it. Wanting to be completely buried by him.

His mouth landed on her neck, his lips skimming softly, almost leisurely. He slowly trailed his tongue down the column of her neck and her eyes fluttered shut.

“You want it, don’t you?” he whispered. “It’s why you push me. You want to be punished. Owned. By me.”

She nodded, a dry sob pulling from her chest.

“You are mine, Franny. Do you understand?”

Her body trembled beneath his as his words sank into her skin, settled into her veins, and bled through her. Emotion balled in her throat. She was. His. Irrevocably. All she’d ever longed for was to be wanted. And his fanatical need? It burned through her like fire.

“Mine to keep safe. Mine to take care of. You will never put yourself in harm’s way again.” An animalistic growl filled the room. “Promise me.”

Her blood roared in her ears, the intensity of emotion beating in her heart close to destroying her. “I pro-mise,” she said, voice breaking.

“Excellent.” He petted between her thighs lightly, approvingly. And then pulled away. “You better prepare yourself.”

She froze, and her eyes popped open at his low command. Unsure. Excited. An anticipatory shudder wracked through her. And then she felt him. The blunt tip of him rubbing, gliding over her slickness. He teased at her entrance but never gave her the pressure she craved. He left her empty and wanting.

“Brace yourself, love,” he whispered into her neck. And then he rose, both hands gripping her bottom. His cock pushed into her, tantalizing inch by tantalizing inch. Her inner muscles fluttered around him. Glorious.

“Because if you don’t hold on, I’ll fuck you right off this table.”

Oh. Dear. Lord.

He pulled back and slammed into her, their low groans mingling with the rattling dishware. He canted her hips, driving deeper. Harder. Hitting some secret spot inside of her. A shiver racked her frame. She dug her fingers into the linen tablecloth, pushing against the hard oak beneath, doing her utmost to hold steady against his onslaught. But still she slid forward.

“Do you like that?” he growled, his pace quickening. “Your punishment?”

He spread her wider, lifting one of her thighs so her knee came off the table, his grip so hard she knew she’d bruise, hoped she would. He flattened himself atop her, his other arm and chest caging her in.

“Do you feel what you do to me? I devolve into nothing more than a madman around you. Crazed. I’m deranged for you. You think I don’t care, Franny? I care. Too. Fucking. Much.”

A muffled sob escaped her lips. He had no idea what hearing those words did to her. He dropped her thigh, and his fingers came up underneath her to caress her neck. His fingers tightened over the side of her throat, pulsing in time to his thrusts. That slight pressure, not affecting her airflow, but restrictive in its own way…her core quivered.

His hand drew away, and she felt the pull of cold metal of her locket biting into her skin, then a snap. Her necklace went skittering across the table. Rupert’s hand skated underneath her, flying over folds, and she forgot her locket. He circled over her clitoris, the tightness in her core building, the heat rising to scalding. Her lungs struggled for air, her body spiraling out of control.

The sound of smacking flesh echoed around them. His thrusts demanding retribution. A part of her wondered if he thought he could fuck away the pain of last night, of the scare she’d given him. Because she knew for her—she’d never felt more alive, more safe, than she did in this moment.

And then he stopped, lifting off her again. She cried out, her body screaming as her muscles clenched and unclenched in frustration. On nothing, on emptiness.

“Don’t stop, Rupert,” she whimpered. But he ignored her.

“I’ve been craving this,” he said through harsh breaths. “Every time you’ve dared disobey me, boldly flaunted your disregard, I’ve craved bending you over and showing you what happens to bad girls.”

Smack.

Her body jerked as his palm made contact with her bottom. Her core pulsed, her eyes rolling back. Her nerves were frayed, the sting against her skin the best sort of pain. He slowly slid his cock in and out of her as his palm rubbed softly over her arse. Her core throbbed harder. That had been…

More. She needed more.

And she wouldn’t be Franny if she didn’t taunt. “That’s it?,” she goaded. “How disappointing.”

Cold air met her bottom, then a second later, so did his palm.

A broken sob escaped her at the contact, ending on a low moan. The sting was sharper now, her skin already raw, his smack carrying more power. She shimmied back against him. Offering herself up to him. Again. Please, again. She didn’t care what it said about her. What it said about him. She reveled in it, and she wanted more.

He growled.

“What a wanton you are. So…base. So…hungry…for your punishment.”

He slowed his thrusts. That glide, his hard, hot flesh, caressing her deep inside… A broken sob fled her. That was punishment.

A rich, dark chuckle escaped him.

“Rupert, please .”

His chuckle died, and his thighs turned to iron against her, his thrusts stopping entirely. She ground herself desperately against him. Oh, sweet heavens, that felt exquisite. His fingers dug into her hips, freezing her.

“Beg again.” His harsh words sliced through the stillness.

Her brain was nothing but a puddle of lust, too slow for the likes of Rupert.

“Beg. Again.”

Her breath stuttered, and she hurried to comply. “Please. Rupert, please.”

His fingers flexed, the tension in his frame radiating into her.

“Please what?”

One long, lazy glide, and her eyes fluttered. Not enough.

“What does my bad girl want?”

Him.

Her words came out a plea, a whine, but she didn’t care. “Fuck me, Rupert. Please .”

He lowered over her, his heated whisper dancing over her skin. “As my lady wishes.”

Rupert drove into her, ripping a low moan from her. His pace was relentless, the pound of his hips against hers brutish, his low grunts in her ear uncivilized. Porcelain clattered, the metallic clink of silverware echoed sharply. Her arms bent under the force of his thrusts, her cheek pressing into the gathered tablecloth. A crash sounded as something fell off the table. Rupert didn’t falter for a moment. Her gaze caught on a peach rolling across the floor.

Her core quivered, a low thrum beginning deep inside. Each uncivilized thrust brought her higher. Her entire body vibrated, on the verge of shattering. And then his fingers slipped to her again, and with the lightest of movements, he pressed over her clitoris at the same time his cock drove into her.

And she was done for.

Hedonistic pleasure streaked through her, like her body was a fuse and he her match. She screamed out her release, body arching, bucking, completely out of her control, completely in his hands.

The rasp of his breath against her neck stuttered, and a guttural noise ripped from him, rolling through the dining room. The steel length of him drove deep once more and then held there. At the heart of her.

She panted heavily, her chest surging in rhythm with his, the last waves of pleasure rippling through her.

And then he was gone, his boots thumping loudly on the rug. She hastily pushed up, warmth infusing her face, she hurried to cover her bare bottom with her skirts. After the intensity of the moment, the knowledge of how on display she had been sent heat burning up her neck and over her cheeks.

Rupert vigorously stuffed his shirt in his breeches and buttoned them. She scrambled to the edge of the table, and by the time she hopped off, he was already striding toward the door.

She furrowed her brow, her thoughts a dizzying mess. “Where are you going?”

He paused and looked back over his shoulder. She took a step backward. If looks could annihilate, his did.

“You are…vexed?” What in the blazes? Had they not just made progress? She had thought… They were just intimate. And it had been…beyond words. That was good, was it not? “Is this because I threw fruit at you?”

He stepped toward her, his hand erratically drumming against his thigh. “Fruit?” His eyes bugged. “No, Franny! I could not care less about the bloody fruit.” He shook his head, hair flopping violently. “I don’t know if I’m angrier at myself for fucking you like an animal on our dining room table or at you for what you did last night or at myself for-for—for fucking everything!”

He pivoted on his heel and moved for the door.

“Wait, Rupert! Let’s talk about this.”

He spun sharply, and she stopped short.

“You want to talk, Franny? Fine. Let’s talk. What would you like to address first? Our abomination of a marriage? How you think I’m no better than a tyrannical jailer, and I think you might be fucking right? How you have no regard for consequences and don’t care who you hurt in the process? How last night was the most terrifying night of my life, and I wasn’t even the one who was assaulted? I cannot begin to comprehend how you are standing here like nothing is fucking wrong, Franny. Because everything is bloody wrong!”

He turned and strode out the door.

Shite. She ran after him, his form already disappearing into the hall.

“You can’t always leave every time we have an argument!” she called after him.

He halted, standing at least a dozen paces down the hall. Franny’s gaze darted to the wide-eyed Mrs. Higgens standing a few paces from her. Franny swallowed, her stomach clenching. Dear Lord, they had an audience.

Rupert’s delirious chuckle jerked her gaze back to his like a physical tug. He looked maniacal, face bruised and scraped and covered in remnants of dessert, his eyes wide and wild. He pulled a hand down his face, and his chest shook with laughter.

“I can’t leave? Me? Are you fucking jesting with me?” He pointed at her, and she flinched. “You are the one who was going to leave, Franny!” he roared, his chest heaving. His gaze drilled into her, shredded her.

He turned, but paused halfway, looking back. She wasn’t sure if the flatness of his eyes or the softness of his voice destroyed her more. “I may walk away. And try to compose myself. I may keep my distance. For a time. But I would never leave.”

Her heart sank, her legs trembling, the aftermath of their passion and the force of his anger, his pain, washing over her.

“Ready my horse!” he bellowed and stormed down the hall.

Somewhere through the shock, the disorientation from her adrenaline’s swift drop, and the wreckage that lay in the wake of it all, something burned. Bright. Warm. Full of Hope.

Their marriage might have been built on mistakes. They might have done every possible thing wrong. Bloody hell, throwing peaches at him was far from how she should have handled the situation. But one thing was clear: she was certain of her feelings for her husband. And he cared for her. Wanted her in his life.

They would find a way through this.

It was just a matter of…how.